It was a warm evening and people were sitting outside the cafe. Shadows were long and the descending sun made everything rosy. Four dogs of different breeds sat pointedly, tied to nearby parking meters, focusing intently on the cafe, waiting for their owners to appear after dinner. As I approached, I saw two young women sitting under the radiant bougainvillea that decorated the southward wall. They were dressed in the season's fashions for young professionals: the colors were warm and mute, the fabrics gauzy and the cut professionally suggestive. Inside the cafe, someone sneezed. On the table between the women lay a wicker basket now holding only bread crumbs, ceramic blue plates glistening with the residue of salad and two large mugs of half finished lattes. When I passed the duo, one spoke shrilly, in crisis.
"This isn't how I want to live. I don't know what to do. This is all wrong."
The other, affectionately, "Shut the fuck up."
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